


heaven knows what you do to me

by sepiacigarettes



Series: twitter threads [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, M/M, Minor Acxa/Romelle, Minor Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Minor Lance/Pidge | Katie Holt, Señorita AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-22 19:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepiacigarettes/pseuds/sepiacigarettes
Summary: Shiro's grateful for the lack of conversation; he's pointedly ignoring his growing inbox of emails in favour of answering Matt’s querying message of where he is, intent on sending a triumphant snap of himself along with a cheeky line of saying how much he’s beenexploring, when he senses movement out the corner of his eye and chances a look up.And stops dead still.It isn't Acxa, but a waiter this time, taking the order of two booths ahead. His fringe is falling into his eyes, the rest of his long hair pulled into a low ponytail.He's gorgeous.Shiro sees Keith once and issmitten.





	heaven knows what you do to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ribbitsplace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbitsplace/gifts).



> I watched the [Señorita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pkh8UtuejGw) music video once and ran away with it on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sepiacigarettes/status/1144141800447201281?s=20).
> 
> An _overwhelming_ abundance of love to [Ribbit](https://twitter.com/ribbitsplace) for the _gorgeous_ artworks of [Keith](https://twitter.com/ribbitsplace/status/1146816184572153856?s=20) and [both](https://twitter.com/ribbitsplace/status/1148041564448546816?s=20) of them, and them _again_ at the [beach](https://twitter.com/ribbitsplace/status/1158043916593258496?s=20).
> 
> Ribbit, you've stolen a part of my heart; thank you so so much 💖
> 
> Shout out to my Ace Pilot fam: thank you for all the love and support.
> 
> And lastly, to [Nate](https://twitter.com/saucerfulofsins): thank you for putting up with me, for the endless encouragement, and for helping me iron out the last bit of this 💛

> 'Cause heaven knows what you do to me
> 
> You could chain me up or set me free
> 
> And you could suffocate or let me breathe, yeah
> 
> 'Cause I'm a sucker, I'll do 'bout anything
> 
> Just to get those hands on me, yeah
> 
> Keep me hanging on so desperately
> 
> Baby, you could be the death of me
> 
> — PVRIS, _Death of Me_

— S —

Shiro didn’t come to New Daibazaal for anything other than work. Matt and Pidge had set up their lives here a couple of years previously, and after burning out in Altea, Shiro was desperate for a seachange.

And it was a literal seachange.

New Daibazaal is sprawled along the eastern coast, its burning sands tamed only by the soothing coolth of the Galran Sea. It’s unforgivably humid nine months of the year, with a vibrant nightlife and long endless roads for Shiro to eat up on his bike as often as he likes.

At least, as often as work lets him. It would probably be more often, were it not for Slav who insists on being a slave driver and making sure all the proverbial ‘I’s are dotted and ‘T’s are crossed.

Still, Shiro thinks he’s got it pretty good here. His apartment is high enough that he gets to see the first rays of sun in the morning above the Galran Sea, the work is interesting and pays incredibly well, and Shiro keeps himself busy enough with gym until the weekend, when Matt and Pidge drag him out with their partners.

He doesn’t mind fifth-wheeling if it’s with those two; they’ve been family long enough that it doesn’t bother him. What _does_ bother him is the two of them ribbing him about not getting out of his bubble to explore.

“I explore,” Shiro protests, hiding his face in his glass.

“You don’t,” Matt disagrees. “You go to gym, you go to work, you go home. If Pidge and I left you to your own devices, you’d stay a hermit.”

Pidge hums her agreement. Traitor.

“Seriously,” Matt says. “It’s been six months, Shiro. Name one place you’ve been to without us.”

Shiro doesn’t have anything.

And Shiro _hates_ losing.

Which is why he’s parking his bike outside Marmora Diner on a Tuesday afternoon. Apparently it's listed in the top ten places to dine in Daibazaal, and though it's a little run down, there are some cars parked outside to offset any doubts about the diner’s popularity, and the purple neon lights draw Shiro in.

He's always been a sucker for that particular aesthetic.

It's part of the reason New Daibazaal stuck in his head when he visited it for Pidge's engagement party last year.

New Daibazaal felt like a living, breathing city with its glowing nights and suffocating climate, and when he’d gone back to Altea, the pristine marble of it had felt too clean cut, too much like a concrete jungle.

He’d applied for a job at Matt’s company immediately, handed in his resignation a week later, and had his belongings shipped out the weekend after.

He hasn’t looked back since.

The booth Shiro sits in is faded in a well-loved way, the coffee is strong and hot, and the diner is blessedly quiet.

It's a welcome break from the buzzing city he left outside.

The waitress who takes his order has a certain air of 'do not fuck with me' but she seems nice enough too, and when she leaves, she graces him with a small smile.

 _Acxa_ , her name badge reads.

Shiro's grateful for the lack of conversation; he isn't keen on doing much else than scrolling through his phone and pretending responsibility isn't waiting for him the moment he steps outside again.

He's pointedly ignoring his growing inbox of emails in favour of answering Matt’s querying message of where he is, intent on sending a triumphant snap of himself along with a cheeky line of saying how much he’s been _exploring_ , when he senses movement out the corner of his eye and chances a look up.

And stops dead still.

It isn't Acxa, but a waiter this time, taking the order of two booths ahead. His fringe is falling into his eyes, the rest of his long hair pulled into a low ponytail.

He's gorgeous.

Acxa is back with Shiro's order with impeccably unfortunate timing and Shiro is so engrossed in her workmate that he actually cranes his head to look around her to the waiter.

And in another stroke of horrendous timing, the guy looks up and straight at Shiro. God, Shiro's never seen eyes like _those_.

"Were you after anything else?"

Acxa is standing there patiently and Shiro flushes, embarrassed for forgetting himself so completely.

"Sorry," he blurts out. "Yeah, that's great, thanks."

She leaves, but when Shiro glances back, the guy is gone as well. Fuck.

— S —

Shiro isn't sure which deity he made happy, but he has to have done something right somewhere along the line, because he sees the guy again.

It isn't even at the diner, but a small bar on the other side of town, a boho chic place adorned with cacti and an abundance of tequila to go with it.

It's hot and humid thanks to the daily summer downpour and Shiro wishes he'd forgone the button-up in favour of something cooler, but rolled up sleeves and ice cubes are his only saviours here.

At least there aren't too many people to raise the temperature.

The playlist for tonight is, courtesy of Lance the Bartender (who insisted Shiro refer to him that way), titled 'sultry summer hits', something he'd snorted at and earned a flick from Lance's tea towel.

The current song definitely earns its playlist name, a slow and heavy beat that immediately makes Shiro think of too hot nights, of swimming in the sea and sitting on moonlit sands. It's a song that promises to stick around just from the opening chords, and it's really far too fitting for Shiro to hear the crooned lyrics of _'it's suffocating when you're alone'_ when he sees _him_ again.

He's on the other side of the bar with three girls, one of whom is Acxa, the waitress Shiro so brusquely ignored in favour of ogling her workmate. Shiro stamps down on the remaining embers of shame even as he feels his face heating again.

God, he's an idiot.

He's also going to fucking _die_ , because the guy is wearing a goddamned _harness_. Black leather folds over his shoulders and taper down to join the three bands around his waist. The metal buckles glint in the low light and Shiro crunches down on an ice cube to ground himself.

_Get your shit together, Takashi._

He's also been staring too long, because the guy looks up and god, he's way too efficient in making eye contact immediately. Shiro's gut reaction is to flinch away and pretend he was scanning the room, but there's no way he'd pull it off.

Not without looking like an idiot, at least, and Shiro might think that about himself on the regular but it doesn't need to be something he advertises.

So he holds it. And the guy…he doesn't back down either.

They would probably keep going like that, because Shiro's competitive, and always has been and he doesn't really know how to bridge the gap between staring and introducing himself, except one of the girls, the blonde one, saves Shiro from his internal crisis by tugging on the guy's arm.

The contact is lost.

Shiro returns to his water.

Lance sidles up to him with a low whistle as he polished a wine glass. "Your 6 o'clock is _fine_."

Shiro eyes Lance amusedly. "Whatever would your fiancée say?"

"She knows I only have eyes for her," Lance sniffs airily. "I meant you, though. The guy keeps looking over here at you."

Shiro looks over his shoulder before he can stop himself and catches the guy turning back to his blonde partner. "Sure, Lance."

Lance groans theatrically. "Be a gentleman and introduce yourself."

"You trying to get rid of me or something?"

"Yes," Lance points at him. "You're literally doing nothing."

"I'm staying hydrated," Shiro protests.

Matt and Pidge aren’t here yet; Shiro doesn’t fancy sitting by himself.

"No, you're drinking _water_ at a _quiznacking bar_ and wasting precious space for actual alcoholics."

"Wow. Thanks for the love."

"Shoo," Lance says, waving at him with the tea towel.

"I'm not about to walk over there, Lance."

Lance actually _pouts_. God, this is exactly why he's studying theatre. "Why not? He's looking again. You know what they say."

"I don't."

"If he looks once," Lance leers. “He's curious. If he looks twice, he's interested."

"I've never heard that saying in my life."

"You have now!" Lance says cheerily. "Be off, fool. Claim the pretty boy who keeps looking oh-so-surreptitiously over here, hoping to catch your eye."

Shiro opens his mouth to tell Lance otherwise but Lance actually whacks him with the tea towel, and hard.

" _Go_."

"You're a dick," Shiro says as he rubs his stinging arm. "You know that?"

"Bye Shiro!"

And he sweeps up Shiro's water and deposits it on the glass rack before striding off into the back. Shiro stares at the space he left, half irritated and half amused. When Lance doesn't resurface after a couple of minutes, Shiro figures losing to the bartender isn't any worse than sitting at a bar, without a drink and without company.

He has no idea what Pidge sees in Lance, really.

The song is still going, a provocatively sung, _'filthy impetuous soul, I want to give it to you,'_ that swims around Shiro's head.

He chances a glance over his shoulder again. The trio have not moved from their spot.

'Cause I'm so drunk on you,' the song continues, and yeah, Shiro was having water and water only, but Shiro is definitely not one hundred percent because he's standing before his brain has a chance to catch up and tell him how bad an idea this is.

But it's too late to listen to some last-minute scrounged-up wisdom from his otherwise offline intelligence, because the bar is tiny, and Shiro didn't have the foresight to do anything other than walk straight over, and oh god he's in front of him now what does he do shit—

"Hey."

As far as introductions go, Shiro would probably rate it as abysmal out of ten. The guy looks up, caught off guard, and shit, he's wearing eyeliner too?

The three girls he's standing with gaze at Shiro curiously, before Acxa speaks up.

"I know you," she says. "You were at the diner the other day."

Shiro pulls out his best apologetic smile, because really, no one deserved to be treated as appallingly as he did. "I was. Surprised you remembered."

"Hard not to," Acxa replies. "You were completely spaced out."

Shiro scratches the back of his neck. "Ah, I'm sorry about that."

Acxa smirks at him. "I'm Acxa."

The blonde leans in to take over the reins of conversation from Acxa, and the grin she gives Shiro could power an entire city with how bright it is. "Hello! I'm Romelle, and this is Allura."

All four of them look like they walked off the cover of Vogue.

"Pleasure," Allura says. "And you were?"

"Oh. I'm Shiro."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Allura says softly. "Well, Shiro, if you'll excuse me."

And she walks off without further preamble. It's so glaringly obvious what she's doing but the authority with which she exits the conversation leaves Shiro more impressed than anything else. He doesn’t know if he’d have the balls to do that.

Romelle watches her go, and then laces her fingers with Acxa. "Would you like a drink, Shiro?"

"Me? Oh, no," Shiro says quickly. "No, I'm good. But thank you."

He gets another billion-watt smile for his efforts, and then all three girls are gone.

He really, _really_ should have thought this through at least a bit before he stumbled over here.

"Shiro, huh?"

God, Shiro is going to wilt before he even gets to learn the guy's name, because whose voice sounds like _that_?

"Yeah."

"I'm Keith."

Keith. Shiro savours it, feeling like he's been given a gift.

"Nice to meet you."

"Well you didn't really give me a choice not to."

_Foot in mouth, Takashi. Foot. In Mouth._

"Should I apologise?"

"Perhaps," Keith says, but his eyes twinkle.

He raises his glass to his lips and drinks and Shiro's mouth goes dry watching.

"I saw you at the diner the other day too," Keith says after he’s lowered his glass. His eyes are still incredible: so dark, so expressive.

"Yeah?"

Keith nods. "Acxa kept complaining about how she repeated herself three times."

"God, I'm so sorry."

"It was funny. Still is."

Shiro seeks out the girls again and finds all three crowded at the bar.

Acxa's arm is slung around Romelle's waist, an embrace that Shiro sees most girls do with each other. Then Acxa leans in and kisses the side of Romelle's neck in a way that's definitely not 'gals being pals'.

Well then. That's two out of the equation.

Allura is weathering Lance's terrible flirting skills fairly well, shaking her head as he slides her drink in front of her.

Maybe, maybe not.

"How do you guys know each other?" he asks, knowing he isn’t being the most subtle person, and not really caring either.

He's doomed either way now, to be honest, already on the back foot from his faux pas at the diner with Acxa.

"Are you always this forward?"

Shiro blushes in spite of himself. "No, not usually."

Keith gives him a lazy once-over and Shiro almost shivers. "Romelle's my sister," he says eventually. "She's with Acxa, if that wasn't blatantly obvious."

They both watch as Acxa ducks in to kiss the blonde. No, absolutely not gals being pals, especially when Acxa tugs Romelle closer, arm possessive around Romelle’s waist now and the two get carried away in each other.

"It is now," Shiro admits.

Keith snorts. "Allura's their roommate." And then, because they both know why Shiro's here: "I study with her boyfriend."

Shiro bites down on the immediate reply of 'oh thank god' and goes for something a little more neutral: "Oh yeah?"

He's so fucking smooth, really. Exactly like crunchy peanut butter.

The song is different now, a more mellow one packed with synth and euphemism. Lance really did put some thought into this playlist after all.

The singer is a little whiny, but the lyrics of _'stay on the ground until your knees hurt'_ hit home well enough, and Shiro coughs.

Because yeah, he totally could do that if Keith would let him, and it's almost a little gross to be so fucking _blatant_ and _desperate_ , because god, how _creepy_ , but Keith is eyeing him with a little more than mild curiosity now, and Shiro wants to know what it means.

Keith tips his head back to finish the rest of his drink as the song builds with _'and I'll keep leading you on, if you keep leading me into your room'_ , his throat long and strong as he swallows and, that's a lot of real estate that Shiro really wouldn't mind sucking bruises onto.

"Mm," Keith says, and then he holds up his empty glass. "I better join the girls. It was nice to meet you though."

Disappointment flares hot and fast in Shiro's stomach at the dismissal. "Leaving already?"

Keith grins at him and god, if that doesn't knock Shiro for six, because he's gorgeous enough as it is.

"You know where to find me."

— S —

"This is creepy, Takashi," Shiro mutters to himself, even as he pulls into the parking lot in front of Marmora Diner.

Keith had implied it was okay the other night, when he told Shiro that he knew where to find him, but Shiro can’t shake the doubt anyway. Who does this?

The neon purple of it is hazy against the night sky, and it's late, so much later than Shiro wanted to be here, but the meeting had gone for over two hours.

Shiro is adamant that the entire thing could have been summarised into an email—really, most of their meetings end up being ridiculously drawn out for no reason—but he shouldn't expect much else from Slav.

Sure, the guy is a genius, but god, sometimes Shiro wants to strangle him.

He’s the only part about moving to New Daibazaal that Shiro can’t stand.

And Shiro definitely wants to strangle Slav now, because he pulls his helmet off just in time to see the last light inside flick off. The neon sign above him dims.

Fuck.

He checks his phone. 8:57pm.

 _Fuck_.

He stubbornly refuses to dwell on Matt's earlier advice of, 'did you even Google the place's opening hours' before he'd hightailed it out of their workplace, because though hindsight is a bitch and Shiro can afford to lose to Lance the Bartender—because he's Pidge's and Shiro loves whoever she loves—he can't with Matt.

Matt is a _menace_.

Maybe he should have chosen a different day, an earlier one. To curb his doubts, he's managed to avoid the diner for a whole week, mostly due to work piling up around him and using the Holts as an excuse to fill in the rest of his time.

And it’s been a good thing, really.

It’s given Shiro space away from the persistent cloud of embarrassment surrounding Acxa's opinion of him, and time to gather himself and not think of immediately sinking to his knees in front of Keith if—well, _when_ —they cross paths again, because he doesn't even know him.

Shiro's horny, sure, but he's not a complete dick.

He can’t curb the disappoint curdling his gut, though.

Tomorrow, then.

He goes to put his helmet on again when the door opens, and out walks Keith.

Keith spots him instantly—how could he not, he's the only one in the fucking parking lot, god, Takashi, _think_ —

"Shiro."

His hair is pulled back again, and the uniform has to be unbearably hot with the summer heat but it hugs Keith in all the right places, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and how trim his waist is.

Shiro lowers his helmet. "Hey."

That same grin from the other night is there, and Shiro feels like he's burning alive with it.

"You're a little late for coffee."

Shiro shrugs. "Vending machine energy drinks are going to have to do."

Keith huffs, not quite a laugh, but a sound that Shiro wants to tease out into one. "Who even drinks caffeine this late?"

"People who don't drink alcohol?"

"You mean you were sober the other night?"

"Hey," Shiro says. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Another aborted laugh, and then Keith shakes his head. "I mean, being drunk would have explained you approaching me out of the blue." Then he grins slyly at Shiro, "And maybe your interaction with Acxa."

"Oh no," Shiro says. "Look, I was distracted, alright?"

Keith smirks and god, his _mouth_. "Do I even want to know what by?"

"The coffee pot you were holding," Shiro deadpans. "Obviously."

The sound Keith makes still isn't wholly a laugh, but it's close. It's a small victory.

Shiro beams with it.

"You really like caffeine that much, huh?"

"I do," Shiro says solemnly. "At least, Marmoran blend."

And he doesn't even know if it's a thing, but damn, if Keith's chuckle doesn't make his entire body sing.

"I'm serious! Two hours overtime and all I thought about was coming here."

"For coffee."

"Yes, sir."

Shiro doesn't call anyone 'sir', but it rolls out of his mouth too quick for him to stop, and Keith's head tilts the same way it did when Shiro made eye contact with him the first time at the bar.

"Sorry to disappoint," Keith says lowly, and _no_ , they're talking about _coffee_ , it's not supposed to be that hot that easily.

Shiro chews the inside of his cheek. "I mean, there's coffee elsewhere."

"Off you go then," Keith says.

Shiro pauses, and then holds out the second helmet he brought with him on the offside chance that Keith would join him.

Wow, Matt was right, he really was just winging it.

Keith appraises the offered helmet amusedly. "Is this also something you don't usually do?"

"Yep," Shiro says.

Keith shakes his head, like he can't believe what he's hearing, and honestly neither can Shiro because he's flying by the seat of his pants here and panicking _hard_.

"Come get coffee with me."

"Shiro, it's past nine."

But he takes the helmet.

— S —

The night engulfs them, sticky weather cloying and unforgiving as they zip past miles of lit up shopfronts and hotel lobbies. Marmora Diner may be closed but the city isn't sleeping any time soon.

New Daibazaal never sleeps.

Shiro doesn't even know where exactly he's going to find coffee—which makes him think of Matt and Pidge cackling gleefully at him—but it's something he's pushed to the side in favour of focusing on the warm brand of Keith's arms around him.

Plenty of time to worry about that when the time comes.

He’ll just Google it.

At the diner, Keith had climbed on without much fanfare, holding loosely onto Shiro's hips before snaking around his waist.

"Don't crash," he'd said, muffled by the helmet, and Shiro had laughed.

"Don't jinx me," he'd joked, but he'd been _anxious_ anyway.

He still kind of is, too aware of the added weight and how much easier it is to turn corners, and how much more care he's riding with. If he were alone he'd zoom along these streets at speeds that would make Colleen Holt tut disappointedly at him and ask if he wanted to end up with a second prosthetic arm.

Which, he doesn't. He just likes the reminder of being alive.

Keith leans with him, folds himself along Shiro's back as much as the helmet allows, and it's too hot to be touching as much as this and not enough at the same time.

It's more out of spontaneity than anything else when Shiro turns away from the heart of the city and towards the beach instead. It's cooler there, he reasons, heading straight for the glittering dark sea.

Summer has claimed here too, though, because the stifling heat stays with them when Shiro parks his bike and pulls his helmet off.

Keith copies and says wryly, "I don't know if you're going to find coffee here, Shiro."

Shiro really, _really_ likes the way his name sounds coming from Keith's mouth.

"It was cooler," Shiro says in explanation, letting Keith get to his feet before taking his jacket off.

One of these days, some genius is going to make bike gear that doesn't make its wearer into the embodiment of Hellfire. Maybe he’ll hit up Pidge and Matt with it as a side-project.

"It's fucking hot," Shiro complains.

He's thoughtless in the way he wipes his face on the hem of his shirt, and then grimaces.

_Gross, Takashi._

The shirt is already ruined with the heat anyway.

Keith is looking at him though, and his expression is decidedly not grossed out. Shiro doesn't know if he feels like pushing his luck to find out what it means.

Keith doesn't give him a chance to anyway, because he turns and steps onto the sand.

Shiro follows him, feeling lost.

"Do you like the feeling of sand in your shoes as well, Shiro?"

"Huh?"

Somewhere in between Shiro packing their gear away and joining him, Keith has taken his boots off.

"Ah."

Keith chuckles quietly. "Take them off, Shiro."

Shiro closes his eyes. He wants Keith to tell that to him again, in a different place, about a different item of clothing.

"If it'll make you happy," he says, but he's already bending down to remove them.

The sand is cool beneath his feet and Shiro digs his toes in, chasing the relief. The air is still around them and heavy like a winter coat, and Shiro almost wishes he could swim, but then he imagines riding home, tacky with salt, and he thinks otherwise.

"You're right," Keith says, crossing his arms. "It is cooler here."

Only slightly, but with the current climate, Shiro will take what he can get. "I mean, you _are_ wearing twenty layers of clothing."

"No, just two," Keith says, and he meets Shiro's gaze and Shiro really is never going to get used to his eyes. "Why, am I making you feel hot?"

 _Yes_ , Shiro thinks desperately. Far too hot.

"I'm just saying," Shiro feigns ignorance. "It'd be a lot cooler if you took it off."

Keith's eyes sparkle with challenge. "Which layer, Shiro?"

Shiro's brain stops working. No. _No_ , it’s not supposed to be this fucking charged all the time.

"Um. Whichever?"

Keith rolls his eyes, but his fingers go to his belt and untuck the sashes that cross over his chest. He pushes them off his shoulders and folds them together, laying them on his shoes before pushing the sleeves of his shirt up.

There’s a solar system tattooed in black on his left forearm.

“I’m glad you think Pluto is a planet,” Shiro says.

“What? Oh. Obviously.” Keith looks at his arm in the dim light. “All that stuff about it being too small is bullshit.”

“Agreed.”

And it’s just discourse, but the tone with which Keith talks about it tells Shiro that there’s more to it. Shiro wants to ask Keith what it means, why he wanted planets imprinted upon his skin, but Keith seems to keep beating him to the punch.

“I like yours.” He motions to the black band around Shiro’s forearm, joined by kanji. “My Japanese is shit. What’s it say?”

“Black lion,” Shiro says. “It’s because my nickname means ‘white’.”

“Yeah, my Japanese isn’t that shit,” Keith says.

“You asked.”

“I did,” Keith says, voice slipping back to that low tone that Shiro enjoys hearing far too much. “Didn’t I?”

Shiro nods wordlessly.

“What’s your actual name then?”

Shiro bites his tongue. It feels like offering a part of himself up, something he isn't sure he wants to give away so easily, because no one calls him his real name anymore apart from his grandparents, and even before, the only ones who did were Adam or his parents.

He doesn’t know Keith at all.

“Takashi.”

It sounds like a bomb, the way it drops from his lips.

“Takashi,” Keith repeats, mouth rolling the name out languidly, trying it on for size.

Shiro has changed his mind. Keith’s honey whiskey voice saying ‘Takashi’ is even _better_ than he thought.

"People usually pronounce it wrong so I don't use it much," Shiro says.

It's a lie. While some people fuck it up, the majority of people still get it right after a few goes. But Keith doesn't need that ugliness to deal with, not when starlight is in his hair and his face is open and soft.

"Can I?"

Shiro figures Keith can have whatever he wants.

"Sure."

"Well in that case, _Takashi_ ," Keith says and Shiro shudders. "Do you have any other ones?”

“Couple,” Shiro admits.

His shirt won’t permit him to show the tattoos unless he removes it, and even though it’s sweltering hot and they told each other to take off clothes before, Shiro figures it can wait.

“Here,” he says, pointing to his bicep. “And then one on my spine.”

“You should show me sometime,” Keith says.

Shiro can’t really interpret that any other way.

“Yeah,” he says around a gulp of oxygen, “sure, whatever you want.”

Keith folds his arms again. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Thanks for agreeing to come with me,” Shiro replies.

In all honesty, he's surprised Keith said yes. Who in their right mind decides to jump on a _motorbike_ with someone they've only met once before?

“It’s nice. I haven’t been to the beach in forever.”

“We live right next to it.”

Keith stares at him, unimpressed. “Hadn’t noticed that.”

Shiro laughs, hopelessly endeared.

“But yeah, it’s nice,” Keith says, before yawning. “I worked nine hours today, though, so I should probably head to bed.”

“I’d call you a grandpa but nine hours is a long shift.”

“Yep,” Keith grumbles. “I could have been in bed by now.”

“You agreed to come.”

“Because you promised coffee.”

"I did, but I also didn’t know where to go," Shiro counters, then adds, “I was banking on your diner, after all. So really this is your fault.”

Keith plays along. “Oh, right, and not your poor time management skills?”

“Not at all.” Shiro dares to nudge his shoulder against Keith’s. “I’m a man of my word though. Coffee?”

Keith groans, looking up to the stars as he does, and the line of his throat is lit against the inky sky by pale moonbeams. “Now?”

“Name a place and we’ll go.”

Keith’s smile is lazy and warms Shiro down to his bones. “Sure, Takashi.”

— S —

“What brought you here?” Keith asks.

Iced lattes are in both their hands and the mellow light of the café brings Keith’s cheekbones into sharp relief. Shiro wants to kiss him senseless.

"To New Daibazaal?"

"Uh huh."

“Work,” Shiro says simply. “You?”

Keith shrugs. “Been here my whole life. My mom is from here. She met my dad in Terra and brought him back with her."

"Not a bad place to grow up."

"No," Keith agrees. "It's really good here."

Shiro studies the pattern of his glass, thinking of all the people Keith would know in New Daibazaal, people he would have gone to school with and grown up with and worked with. Shiro wants to be one of those.

"You work a lot," he says instead.

"Uni holidays," Keith shrugs.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Got nothing better to do with my time. Besides, my uncle owns the diner.”

“Nepotism, huh?”

Keith makes a face. “I wish it worked that way.”

He huffs around a smile, then sips his coffee. His sleeves are still pushed up, the solar system dark black upon his skin, and his hands are wet with condensation.

Shiro wants them in his mouth.

_For fuck’s sake, Takashi._

Shiro latches onto a different train of thought frantically. “How’d you know about this place then?”

“I come here after work sometimes.” Keith’s gaze is coy. “When I’m sick of Marmoran food.”

“That’s a thing?” Shiro asks in mock horror. “I don’t believe it.”

“Better start now, then, Takashi.”

He’s not going to be used to that, not ever.

“Still has better coffee,” Shiro jokes, and of all the things he expected to get Keith laughing, it isn’t that.

But Keith’s face splits into a grin that reminds Shiro of the sunsets here, scorching hot and inescapable, the kind of sunsets that people write sonnets about. His laugh is thick and heavy, soaking the clouds, a golden washout. Shiro wishes he could stand in the torrential downpour until he forgets who he is.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Keith looks at him sharply and Shiro kind of blinks in surprise, wondering when exactly his tongue and brain decided to be traitors and forgo filtering anything before speaking.

“I bet you say that to everyone,” Keith says, like he can save them both from Shiro's embarrassment.

And sure it’s not the best thing to just blurt out on a not-even-first-date, but Keith is wrong, too, because Shiro doesn't, because Shiro’s never met anyone like Keith.

“No,” he says slowly, shaking his head. “No, just you.”

— S —

The next morning, monsoon season kicks into full gear, a final act from Summer before it bows out to the windswept skirts of Autumn. Shiro endures four days of Slav’s paranoia about the weather and its ripple effect on their work before he looks out the office window on the fifth and wonders if he can jump straight out and hit the ground headfirst.

Then he thinks of the very big likelihood of Pidge and Colleen personally dragging his ass back from Hell to reprimand him, and decides otherwise.

It isn’t until Tuesday afternoon when he gets the chance to stop by the diner again.

The place is empty thanks to the quiet downtime between the lunch and dinner rushes. Shiro stands in the doorway for a moment, unsure how to start, before he figures sliding into a booth is probably the best option.

No sooner has he sat down, Keith walks in.

“Thought you’d forgotten about me,” he says softly, and it’s teasing, but something lurches in Shiro at the thought, because how could he ever?

“Work was killing me,” he says in apology.

Keith wordlessly pours him a coffee. Then he sets the pot down and leans against the table, crossing his arms. “Sounds fun.”

“Believe me,” Shiro says, pulling the cup closer like it’s a shield. “Would have rather been here.”

Keith gives him a funny look, and he scuffs the ground with his boot. "You lied to me."

The lurching sensation in Shiro’s gut returns tenfold. "About what?"

“You told me you were never forward.”

Shiro remembers the stifling heat of the bar and the way the leather wrapped sinfully around Keith’s waist. Even now his uniform is just accentuating the ratio between his shoulders and his waist.

"Ah. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's kind of funny."

"Why's that?"

Keith shrugs. "Because it doesn't make a lot of sense."

Shiro doesn't know how Keith can think that, not when he looks like that, when he let Shiro take him to coffee the other night and they talked for hours until it was midnight and Shiro had dropped Keith home. It had felt like the tide, the way talking had felt so effortless with Keith.

Shiro feels like he’s known Keith his whole life.

He pulls his bottom teeth between his teeth. “You’re, um, incredibly motivating.”

Keith laughs in disbelief and the sound of it makes Shiro thinks of sunshowers. Shiro feels his face heat up, and the afternoon sun is a brand on the back of his neck.

“Thought it was the coffee.”

It’s Shiro’s turn to laugh.

“Not the coffee,” he says quietly, loving the way the corner of Keith’s eyes crinkle in mirth.

“No?”

“No.”

Keith takes a moment, pondering something for long enough that Shiro’s heart makes a valiant attempt at giving Shiro hypertension.

Keith doesn’t appear to notice. He inhales deeply, and then his arms unfold. He’s contemplative as he reaches out carefully, and when he rests his hand on the table in front of Shiro, Shiro swallows.

They’re not even touching and Shiro is sweating.

He stays quiet as Keith’s fingers shift and settle next to Shiro’s, a silent invitation.

Fuck.

Shiro stares at Keith’s hand, at the line of his forearm, at the strong swell of his bicep. He travels further, to the curve of Keith’s neck, the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his mouth.

So, _so_ tempting.

When Shiro finally drags his gaze away, Keith is already looking at him. He’s closer now, bathed in the soft afternoon glow, and for the first time Shiro notices just how violet his eyes are.

“Shiro?” Keith asks, "Can I?" and Shiro agrees without even bothering to find out what Keith is asking for.

He’ll give Keith whatever he wants.

Keith sweeps his hand up Shiro’s neck then, feeling Shiro’s thundering pulse and pressing in. Shiro is trapped, helplessly sucked into Keith’s orbit. He’s far too aware of Keith’s right hand finally closing over his left, still holding his coffee cup, and when he tugs, Shiro goes.

Keith’s fingers are in his hair and the slowness of their movements is like treacle as Keith leans closer and Shiro’s arm comes to rest gently across Keith’s lower back. It reminds Shiro of a dance, the way Keith steps into Shiro’s hold and guides Shiro to hold onto his hip.

He dips his face down to Shiro's.

His mouth is just as soft as it looks.

— S —

Evening greets them by the time Shiro leaves the diner, Keith curled against his back as they chase the horizon on his bike. It’s like someone has dipped a brush in the brightest orange paint they could find and streaked it across the sky.

After the first kiss, Keith had been almost shy. His left hand had slowly curled over Shiro’s shoulder and he’d asked, “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Shiro had said immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

His hand had flexed on Keith’s hip once, and when he’d leaned up, Keith had met him halfway.

They'd ended up with Keith in Shiro’s lap, his mouth warm and insistent upon Shiro’s and Shiro doing his best to keep up because _god_ , it felt _good_ , so good to have Keith straddling him, holding his face and doing a pretty thorough job of taking Shiro’s breath away.

“Please tell me you finish soon,” Shiro had pulled away to pant, and Keith's lips were cherry red and far too tempting for Shiro's sanity.

Keith had snorted, ignorant, hands linked around Shiro’s neck like they belonged there. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Shiro had wrapped his tongue around Keith’s and distracted him a little longer until Keith forcefully climbed out of his lap to get back to cleaning the bar, because nephew or not, he had obligations, Shiro, god—and Shiro had grinned like a madman as he worked on his laptop for the next hour.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Keith had said when the next manager had arrived.

“You’re busy now?” Shiro had guessed, trying not to let his disappointment show.

 _Don’t be a child, Takashi_.

“I am,” Keith had hedged. “It’s Acxa’s birthday. She’s having drinks.”

“Ah.”

“Come with me?”

Honestly, what makes Keith think Shiro would say no?

The sun is a golden thread on the horizon when Shiro pulls into the parking lot of Keith’s place. Keith walks ahead of him and Shiro just stares at his legs the entire time, wondering if it’s something in the water.

It can’t be. Shiro’s never felt so parched in his life.

Keith’s apartment is nothing like Shiro’s. It’s smaller, more homey. Less four walls and minimalistic decor. Keith throws his keys in the bowl next to the door and walks straight into his room, not waiting. Shiro figures he’s probably allowed to follow.

Keith is rifling through his wardrobe when Shiro enters. His work sashes are already on the bed and Shiro sits next to them, feeling lost as Keith finds pulls his work shirt off. The muscles of his back ripple with the movement and Shiro’s blood runs hot at the sight of Keith shrugging into a loose white shirt.

He tucks it into the waistband of his jeans, utterly unaware of the way Shiro’s heart is tripping over each beat, and when he starts rolling the sleeves up his forearms, Shiro has to look away. He wants to kiss each planet.

_You’re ridiculous, Takashi._

“Where are we going?” Shiro asks.

“Acxa’s first,” Keith says. “Then a bar, probably. Why?”

Shiro winces in spite of himself. “Is she okay with me coming?”

“Wouldn’t have asked if she wasn’t,” Keith grins. “She likes you.”

Shiro has no idea how. “Really?”

“I know, I was surprised too.”

“Hey!” Shiro says, and Keith laughs again, and god, Shiro wants to make him laugh all the time.

The laughter dies down naturally, and Shiro indulges in the loose strands of Keith’s ponytail. They frame his face so prettily. Then Keith closes his wardrobe and leans against it, eyeing Shiro. His expression is unreadable.

“What?” Shiro asks quietly.

“Nothing,” Keith says. He runs a hand through his fringe. “You’re just...you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“I don’t know,” Keith says, and it takes a moment for Shiro to realise that he’s flustered. “That thing where you just watch me.”

Shiro thinks of the hour he just spent at the diner, watching Keith put on his best customer service persona and actual smile at the diner goers. He thinks of the solar system on Keith’s forearm, of the warmth of Keith behind him on the bike.

“Do you mind?” he says softly.

Keith waits for a moment, and then says, “No.”

Shiro makes his voice even softer this time, lower. “Do you like it?”

An even longer wait.

And then, hushed: “Yes.”

— S —

Acxa’s apartment is five minutes down the road, so Shiro leaves his bike at Keith’s and they walk side by side under glowing streetlights. The dying day does little to alleviate the heat, and Shiro’s grateful for the blast of aircon that hits him when they arrive.

Romelle opens the door before Keith even gets a chance to knock, barrelling into her brother with a hug. “Keith!”

“Hey,” Keith huffs, squeezing back and kissing her forehead.

Something in Shiro’s stomach flops at the sight, warm and smooth like whiskey. Romelle gives him a hug as well once she’s freed her brother, and then she grabs both their hands to drag them inside. The rest of their apparent crew are settled around the coffee table, halfway through setting up a card game.

Acxa is reclining on the furthest couch in trousers that accentuate the breadth of her shoulders, and she smirks when they enter. “You said you’d be here half an hour ago, Keith.”

“Hi, Acxa,” Keith rolls his eyes. “Happy birthday.”

Acxa’s eyes slide over to Shiro, and then back to Keith. “Got held up?”

“ _Working_ ,” Keith retorts. “Antok was late. You can blame him.”

“Oh, can I?” Acxa sniffs. Her eyes flicker to Shiro again. “Hello, Shiro.”

Shiro meets her gaze head on. “Hey.”

She raises a brow, but her smirk softens into a smile, so Shiro counts it as a win.

“Be nice,” Romelle scolds as she drapes herself across Acxa’s lap.

Acxa nuzzles her jaw. “That's no fun.”

"He's Keith's," Romelle tells her. "You have to."

Acxa grumbles an agreement as Keith sits on the opposing couch and motions for Shiro to follow. Shiro has no idea how Keith does that: how he just moves around Shiro so effortlessly, like the reason they’re late isn’t because they made out for half an hour on Keith’s bed.

And it had been nothing like the diner.

After Keith’s quiet admission, Shiro had stood, fully intending to cross the distance and maybe pin Keith against the wall like he’d been dying to since he saw him at the bar, except Keith had moved first.

He’d gone up to his tiptoes and curled his hand around Shiro’s neck again, so much surer than the diner, whilst the other had smoothed up Shiro’s thudding chest, and he breathed hotly over Shiro’s mouth _once_ before Shiro threw control out the window and grasped Keith’s waist.

And god, Shiro’s eyes closed immediately at the slimness of it in his hands, and he didn’t think, just twisted until they fell to the mattress.

“Shit,” Keith had laughed, and Shiro had chased after the feeling hearing _that_ gave him, mouthing at Keith’s cheekbone.

“Not sorry,” he’d muttered, and Keith smiled and kissed him instead.

Shiro had thought he’d struggled to match pace with Keith before, but Keith was unforgiving on his back underneath Shiro, mouth hot and wet against Shiro’s, teeth dragging across Shiro’s bottom lip.

His hips slotted against Shiro’s far too easily for both their own good.

Shiro had just enough of his brain left working to remind himself to pull the collar of Keith’s shirt to the side before he sucked on the slope of Keith’s shoulder and bruised it and Keith’s sigh had made Shiro’s heart skip a beat.

Sitting next to Keith now, Shiro can almost envisage the exact spot he marked underneath Keith’s shirt. He wants to keep going, wants to reach out and push Keith’s hair to the side and seal his lips over Keith’s neck, except shit, he’s being introduced to the other three—

“—is Ezor,” Keith says, “Zethrid, and Narti.”

All three are a gradient of talkative, in which Narti is more interested in petting her cat, whilst Ezor takes the crown.

“Hey,” Shiro says, feigning confidence.

“So _you're_ the guy Acxa was talking about,” Ezor says.

“Nothing good, I'm sure,” Shiro says.

“Well she didn't say how hot you were,” Ezor says.

Shiro chokes. Zethrid snorts.

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ez…”

Ezor's laugh is wicked. “Aw, you blush pretty too.”

Romelle flaps her hand at Ezor. “I literally _just_ told Acxa to be nice and that includes you!”

Ezor rolls her eyes, then winks at Shiro. “I'll be nice for pretty boy's sake.”

Keith scowls at her. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“But it suits you so well,” Ezor purrs. “Don't you think so, Shiro?”

Shiro looks between the pair, knowing whatever he says is going to shoot him in the foot regardless, so he just nods. Ezor cackles with laughter, but the way Keith's face steadily turns pink as he pushes a hand of cards at Shiro is worth it.

— S —

It’s the same bar that Shiro met Keith at.

Lance isn’t working, something Shiro is more than thankful for. He isn’t sure he’d be able to handle Lance’s leering grins—even though to be honest, Shiro probably deserves them.

Hunk is working though, and his eyes light up when Keith and Shiro approach.

“Keith, buddy!” Hunk crows. “How’ve you been?”

“Work,” Keith grimaces.

“God, same,” Hunk sighs. “Hey, Shiro.”

“Hunk,” Shiro says, buoyed by the warmth of Hunk’s demeanor. “I didn’t know you guys knew each other.”

“ _Neither_ ,” Hunk says pointedly. “Keith and I go to uni together. How do _you_ two know each other?”

Keith glances at Shiro at the same time. Shiro’s stuck thinking of hickies and the way Keith sighed in his ear—

—and how the _fuck_ has he not run into Keith earlier if Keith knows Hunk? Hunk and Shiro work out together, for god’s sake.

Small world.

“We get coffee sometimes,” Keith says with a small smile, and damn, Shiro wants to inject the sweetness of it straight into his veins.

“Nice, nice,” Hunk nods, looking at Keith. “Bourbon?”

“Yeah, neat.”

“I _know_ ,” Hunk says, and then motions to Shiro. “Let me guess: water?”

Shiro gives him a mock salute. “Always.”

Hunk laughs and pours Keith’s drink. “Sure thing, Shiro. Haven’t seen you in gym lately. And by lately I mean since yesterday.”

“Slav is doing his best to make me want to die,” Shiro says.

Hunk passes Keith’s drink to him. “You say that every time I ask.”

“ _You_ try working with the guy,” Shiro complains.

“I’ll pass, thanks. I’ve got Lance.” He juts his chin at Keith. “Have you done Friday’s quiz yet?”

“We have a quiz?” Keith says nonchalantly.

"Bud," Hunk groans. “Be off. I don’t want to hear another word from you until you’ve done it.”

“What makes you think I’m going to do it?”

“ _Off_.”

Keith snickers and leads the way back to their table. The birthday girl is on the dance floor, arms tight around Romelle, and they’re kissing more than dancing and clearly don’t care. With them are Allura and Lotor, her boyfriend. He has long white hair like Allura, and the club lights bounce off both of them.

Allura had waltzed into the living room the moment after Keith had given Shiro his cards, greeting him with the same regal air from the first time. “Shiro. I was wondering when we’d see you again.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” Allura had said, like it was sensical for Shiro to be turning up in their lives by _invitation_.

“Romelle said we had to be nice,” Ezor whined.

“Collective?” Allura had teased. “Or just you?”

“ _You’re_ included, Princess,” Ezor said.

“We’ll see,” Allura had simply smiled and then joined Romelle on the couch.

With so much easy affection between everyone, Shiro had been sorely tempted to reach out and grasp Keith’s waist and drag him into his arms, but he wasn’t bold enough. He'd settled for shifting closer on the couch and they’d played cards like that, knees knocking against each other’s, Keith turning to grin triumphantly at him whenever he beat Shiro.

Shiro would let him have all the wins if that’s what he looked like when he did.

It almost isn’t fair, Shiro muses, how distracting Keith is. He’s got such lovely eyes.

“You’re staring again,” Keith murmurs.

“Sorry,” Shiro says quickly, and Keith hums.

“Couldn’t help it?”

“No.” Never.

Keith’s fingers are cold on Shiro’s jaw as he leans up and kisses him.

— S —

They barely make it to the restroom.

Keith’s mouth has the same soft quality to it that Shiro is beginning to crave, and it had started chaste enough at the table, because there had been people and Keith’s friends and Hunk behind the bar and Shiro was self conscious.

But then Keith had flicked his tongue against Shiro’s lip at the last second and shit, that was _hot_ , hotter than it really had any right to be, and Shiro had pulled away.

“Finish your drink,” he’d said.

“Why?” Keith had said, like he had no idea why Shiro wanted him to.

“Finish. Your. Drink.” Shiro had repeated, putting actual weight behind the words.

Keith’s eyes had widened at that and Shiro had filed the response away, loving the way Keith readily tipped his head back to do as he was told.

Shiro didn’t even give him time to swallow.

The door is still closing when Shiro grasps Keith’s face and kisses him hard enough that Keith stumbles backwards with the force of it.

Something crows inside Shiro when he does.

_Good._

Shiro takes advantage of the slip and his larger frame to walk Keith back, barely thinking as he gets one hand under Keith's thigh and _lifts_ , shoving Keith onto the bench behind. He doesn’t give Keith any time to catch his breath, crowding into his space and kissing him again.

Keith's knee knocks into Shiro's side and Shiro shoves it down roughly in reprimand, and Keith gasps, “Oh, fuck,” right into Shiro open mouth.

The heat of it sends a shock of pleasure rocketing through Shiro and he leans his forehead against Keith's with a groan.

“God, Keith,” he says. “The sounds you make.”

Keith just hooks his arm around Shiro's neck and pulls him closer. Shiro’s happy to go with the motion, arm circling Keith’s waist fully now and holding him until there’s only cotton between their pounding hearts.

“Shit,” Shiro mutters, moaning when Keith just chases him and takes his breath away with another spitfire kiss. “ _Keith_.”

Keith just digs his heels into the back of Shiro’s thighs in answer, bringing their hips together, and oh god, that's so much better than Shiro remembered.

The pipes groan in the walls and Shiro pauses to remind himself that they’re making out like teenagers in a bathroom.

It should be gross.

It _is_ kind of gross.

It isn’t bad, as far as bathrooms go, but the benches have puddles of water on them from which Shiro’s pretty sure Keith’s jeans are wet. It’s hard to care, though, when Keith is tugging at his shirt and sucking on his tongue.

It's moments afterward that Keith gets his shirt untucked and Shiro makes up his mind.

He’ll overthink later on.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Keith says, hands skimming under Shiro’s shirt, feeling out the planes of his chest. “How are you _real_?”

Shiro shakes his head, because he’s a grain of sand compared to Keith. Keith is an entire coastline. “It’s just gym.”

“You’re so hot,” Keith says and Shiro kisses him to stop any other forthcoming comments like that.

“Shh,” he says, half joking, half pleading.

“Make me,” Keith retorts.

Well.

Shiro brushes his nose against Keith’s. “Is that a challenge?”

Keith’s eyes are so dark, so pretty. “I don’t know. Is it?”

Shiro leans in and bites the side of Keith’s neck gently, too gently to be anything threatening. He thinks of Keith’s response back at their table, of the way Keith had finished his drink without any protest.

Keith’s smirk fades into a look of confusion when Shiro draws back, and Shiro has to stamp down on his automatic response of wanting to bridge the gap.

Instead he hooks a finger into the belt loop of Keith’s jeans. “Will you take these off?”

Keith makes a face. “Takashi, this is a _bathroom_.”

“A gross one, too,” Shiro nods, but he persists, dropping his voice again. “Will you?”

Common sense dictates that they shouldn’t. Common sense would mean they leave this club and tumble into either of their beds, but Shiro is impatient and he thinks Keith might be the same too.

Keith inhales.

“Okay,” he says.

It’s Shiro’s turn to hold his breath.

He hears every catch of Keith’s zipper.

Keith eyes him lazily as he does so, pushing his jeans down slightly and smiling when he’s done. “Like this?”

“ _Good,_ ” Shiro says.

He’s testing Keith again, gauging his response, seeing if he’s right about this one too. Keith’s breath hitches and that tells Shiro all he needs to know.

He wonders if he’ll ever get used to how gorgeous Keith looks. Face flushed, hair tousled, mouth wet. His dick is a hard line against his briefs and Shiro reaches out numbly, running a thumb up the length of it.

God, he wants it in his mouth.

Keith sighs when Shiro repeats the movement, and he answers Shiro’s questing kiss readily. His lips are soft and warm and Shiro takes his time, until he braves letting his hand linger at the waistband of Keith’s briefs.

“I want to make you come,” he whispers. “Will you let me?”

Keith nods, “Yeah,” and his teeth are sharp when they bite Shiro’s mouth, “Yeah, Takashi, _yeah_.”

The music from outside reverberates through the bathroom, the beat of it outpaced by the _thump thump thump_ of Keith’s heartbeat. Shiro presses his hand to it, intending to kiss Keith’s neck, but he’s interrupted by Keith lacing their fingers together.

Out of all their touches, Shiro finds this one the boldest, and it’s so unexpected that he falters.

Keith makes Shiro meet his gaze and holds it as he raises Shiro’s hand.

His mouth brushes against the inside of Shiro’s wrist, right where the pulse would have been. The metal must be cool under Keith’s lips, but he keeps going regardless, nuzzling Shiro’s forearm.

“What does that feel like?” Keith asks, and of all the things Shiro’s been asked about his prosthetic, it’s never been _that_.

It’s always been what happened for him to get one, how long he’s had it for, how it works, if he has to don and doff it.

It's never been about _him_.

“Good,” he says, because it _does_. “Really good.”

“Yeah?” Keith murmurs, and the movement sends more sensation zinging up Shiro's arm. Keith keeps going, asking, “What if I do this?”

And he licks the spot his mouth once was, and Shiro gasps at the even greater sensory feedback. He hasn’t been with anyone since he got the prosthetic, has never had someone’s attention and hands and mouth upon it.

He didn't know it could feel like this.

Keith just about purrs at the discovery, and Shiro can't _not_ kiss him then.

He never wants to stop.

"Touch me," Keith breathes, reading Shiro's pause in moving as hesitation. "You can touch me, Takashi."

"Where?"

"Here," Keith says, dragging Shiro's hand to his boxers and groaning when Shiro presses. "Fuck, here, _please_."

"Okay," Shiro says, and he slips inside.

Keith’s skin is hot to the touch and he shivers when Shiro’s cooler metal fingers curl around his cock. “Oh, fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro says as he grips him properly, taking time to memorise the feel of Keith in his hand before stroking down.

If either of them should be self-conscious, it should probably be Keith, but Shiro is that one that has to look down at what he’s doing so he doesn’t die on the spot from performance anxiety.

God, it’s been forever.

He can’t be starting out too badly though, because Keith groans quietly on the next upstroke, and Shiro is enraptured with how Keith reacts when he swipes his thumb over where precome has already gathered at the head, a whining sort of noise that sets Shiro’s skin on fire.

“Fuck, baby,” Shiro says, repeating the movement, watching himself spread precome down the underside of Keith’s cock.

It’s too soon, Shiro thinks. Too soon to be using that kind of endearment, too soon to be craving Keith’s body and time and company this much.

But Keith’s head falls back against the mirror with a groan, and like this, Shiro can see the line of bruises he’s left along Keith’s throat. Keith is completely at ease in Shiro's arms, so, so trusting, and the awful realisation of it settles heavily in Shiro's gut.

There's a million reasons backing up in Shiro's mind, a million reminders of why he shouldn't have Keith's trust so easily, but Keith looks at him then, and Shiro has to tell himself to breathe, because—

Because when Keith looks at him like _that_ , it doesn't feel like too soon.

“Is this okay?” he has to ask, feeling like he’s coming undone at the seams.

He keeps stroking Keith in long, slow pulls as he asks in an effort to silence his stir crazy train of thought.

He can be good, too.

He can make this good for Keith. Keith deserves it to be good.

“Keep going,” Keith says, already out of breath, cheeks cherry red.

Shiro bites the inside of his cheek.

 _Fuck_.

“Okay.”

Shiro kisses him once, pulls Keith’s bottom lip between his before withdrawing his hand from Keith’s boxer briefs.

Keith’s sound of protest is immediate, and that's fair enough, but Shiro doesn’t give him any leeway to voice it properly, saying, “ _Just wait_ ,” and slotting his mouth against Keith’s again.

Keith always kisses like he’s got a point to prove, always leaves Shiro breathless, lips tingling, wanting more.

These ones are no different.

Keith tastes like bourbon, and Shiro’s never been one for whiskey but god, he could get used to licking it from Keith’s mouth.

“Takashi,” Keith actually _whines_ , and Shiro can’t ignore _that_.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says roughly, feeling too far gone to try and be patient even though Keith is the focus here. “I’m going to—”

“Yes,” Keith says and he reaches for Shiro’s hand again, the prosthetic one, so uncaring of its metallic form.

Shiro is stuck wondering at how much Keith is unfazed by it when Keith suddenly licks a long stripe up Shiro’s palm without warning, and the onslaught of sensation that blasts through Shiro makes his knees buckle.

“ _Keith_ ,” he says, leaning against the bench. “ _Fuck_ —”

Keith moans, sucking Shiro's thumb into his mouth and Shiro presses his face to Keith's neck to pant and try to get his breath back.

"Keith," Shiro whimpers, "Keith, please, I—"

It's too much, it's too much for here, for now, Shiro wants to explore this later, when he's not so on edge, when he's in a safer place than a dingy bathroom.

"Yeah," Keith says. "I know, okay—"

But now Shiro sees the second reason for Keith's mouth, because now his hand is slick when he returns to stroking Keith.

“Oh, fuck,” Keith says, and Shiro could listen to him say that ten thousand times over. “God, yes—”

“Yeah?” Shiro encourages, watching the head of Keith’s dick push through the tight ring of his fingers. “Do you like that?”

“Yeah,” Keith admits, high and breathy, and when Shiro looks up he sees Keith is also watching. “Yeah, I do, shit—”

“Good,” Shiro bites out. “Good, that’s what I want, that's all I want.”

Keith’s eyes are lidded, dark violet in the low light, pretty, so pretty. “Really?”

Shiro doesn’t have much else to lose, not when he has Keith all to himself, moaning and squirming in his arms and driving Shiro _insane_. “Yeah, Keith, I want—I want—”

“Anything,” Keith breathes. "Anything you want."

Shiro doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

“Can I touch you?” Keith blurts out before Shiro can attempt to tell him what he’s thinking.

Shiro pauses, and then says, “Yeah, sure, Keith. Whatever you want.”

Keith’s eyes bore into him for a moment, double checking, and then his hands are at Shiro’s belt, undoing it deftly. Shiro bites his lip as Keith’s fingers flick open the button of his trousers and then Keith is pushing a hand into Shiro’s briefs and wrapping around his dick oh god—

“Fuck, you’re big,” Keith says, almost clinically, and Shiro laughs.

“God, Keith—”

But Keith keeps going, saying, “I want to see you come,” and Shiro completely loses his coordination.

“Fuck, Keith, you can’t just say that—”

“Tell me how,” Keith says, ignoring Shiro, curling his hand around Shiro’s neck again to pull him in for a kiss.

Shiro’s pretty terrible at multitasking, and it shows when he’s forced to let his focus shift from stroking Keith’s dick to kissing his addictive mouth instead.

Keith is not nearly inept.

He stops for a moment to lick his hand, and Shiro watches dumbstruck at the sight of Keith’s tongue, before he’s closing his eyes reflexively when Keith’s fingers link around his dick again.

“Like that, baby,” he mumbles, pressing his temple to Keith’s. “Fuck.”

Keith’s fingers are slender and nimble, tight on the way down, twisting on the upstroke. He’s good, he’s so good—

“Am I?” Keith says, and Shiro realises he’s been speaking aloud.

“Yeah, baby,” Shiro says, and it’s the third time the endearment has leapt out of him but screw it.

Touching Keith like this is making everything else in Shiro short circuit.

“You’re good,” he repeats. “You're doing so good, you're gonna make me come—”

"Please," Keith says.

His hand squeezes the base of Shiro’s dick and Shiro groans. His mouth is open against Keith’s neck, and if not for his left hand planted firmly on the bench, Shiro would have fallen straight onto Keith with all the pleasure rippling through his body.

He isn’t going to last.

That much was abundantly clear from the very first moment Shiro laid eyes on Keith, to be honest, but Keith should come first. He’s so beautiful, and Shiro wants to watch him fall apart in his arms.

It takes a lot of effort to drag himself out of the hazy orgastic chase Keith’s hands and mouth are doing to Shiro, but he manages to begin jerking Keith off again.

Even his dick is pretty, flushed pink and swollen and throbbing in Shiro’s hand, hot and heavy.

Shiro wants it in his mouth, too. He wants Keith prying open his mouth with his tongue and his fingers, wants to be on his knees in front of Keith, suckling the underside of his cock and messing up his face before letting Keith push his dick down Shiro’s throat.

Keith would probably be a gentleman about it too, would probably do as Shiro wanted and wouldn’t take the lead until Shiro’s hands would dig into his hips and he’d draw off Keith’s dick and say, “Keith, please,” and even then Shiro would still need to encourage him.

Maybe he could do it now.

Maybe he could sink to his knees, watch Keith’s eyes go wide with the realisation of what Shiro wants to do to him. Shiro could bend forward to wrap his lips around the head of Keith and _suck_ , and god, yeah, okay, yeah, _now_ —

Except Keith has plans of his own that don’t align with Shiro’s at all as he ups the ante _again_.

“Takashi,” he murmurs, shifting closer to the edge of the bench, and Shiro is still thinking of asking Keith to fuck his mouth when Keith’s free hand joins the one around Shiro’s dick. “Let me,” he says, and Shiro thought two hands was good but then Keith brings Shiro’s cock flush against his own and—

“Jesus _Christ_ ," Shiro swears loudly, "Keith, I—”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, hands moving over both their cocks, and it’s slick and tight and hot, so hot—

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, “Yeah, fuck, yeah, Jesus,” and he joins Keith in stroking the two of them, fingers huge against Keith’s slender digits.

The heads of their cocks slip against one another, precome easing the way and making everything molten in a way that has Shiro gasping.

Keith bites his lip as he watches what he’s doing, pulling Shiro’s foreskin down and swiping a thumb over the sensitive head. Pleasure pools hot and fast in Shiro’s stomach and he groans, entranced as Keith laves spit onto his hand and repeats the movement.

“God. _Keith_.”

“This okay?” Keith asks, palm still stroking both their cocks, hips thrusting slightly like he can’t help it.

“You feel so good,” Shiro confesses.

His ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton wool, head swimming with the sensation of Keith’s dick pulsating against his. “So fucking good, god, baby—”

Keith’s cheeks are stained pink but when Shiro calls him that, they flare bright red.

“That,” Keith pants. “Say that again?”

“Huh?”

Keith leans in to hide his face in Shiro’s neck, not offering any explanation and telling him, “Say it again.”

Shiro noses Keith’s hair, messy and falling free of its bun. “What,” he whispers, even though he kind of already knows. “How good you are?”

Keith doesn’t do anything, so Shiro presses on, bolstered by the firm grip Keith has around their cocks.

“Do you like being good for me?”

Keith whines, long and drawn out and Shiro almost comes from the sound of it.

“God, you sound pretty,” Shiro says, knowing he’s babbling, not caring anymore. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

“ _Fuck_.” Keith jerks suddenly.

“Yeah?" Shiro says. "You like it when I call you ‘baby’?”

Keith keeps his face hidden, but he nods.

And Shiro should really be thinking about his orgasm, but the admission makes his heart flip over on itself, because it’s sweet.

 _Sweetheart_ , he thinks, and god, calling Keith ‘baby’ is one thing but ‘sweetheart’ is something else entirely.

But he doesn’t have time to overthink that, either.

“Takashi,” Keith stutters, stiffening up, and oh god, Shiro’s going to see him come, he’s going to watch him fall apart—

“Keith,” Shiro groans back. “Baby, come on, let go, let go—”

Keith is gorgeous when he does, hunching over reflexively, knees digging into the side of Shiro’s ribs as come lands on their fingers, and it’s the sight of it oozing down the back of Shiro’s hand that has him tipping over.

“Keith, I’m going to come—” he warns and Keith keeps stroking the two of them.

“I want it,” Keith says. “I want to see you too, show me—”

Keith can have whatever he wants.

— S —

It’s becoming more and more apparent that Shiro hasn’t seen Keith in his final form yet.

Especially as Keith dances with him.

He’s fluid with his movements, and Shiro feels gauche and ten feet too tall but Keith moves with him, face scrunched up around a smile.

His hair is falling in his eyes again, and his mouth is still swollen from the onslaught of Shiro’s kisses earlier, and Shiro already came once but he wants to go again.

He’d wanted to immediately after, in the bathroom, and then Keith had made it even worse.

“Shit, that’s a lot,” he’d said, referencing the come all over his hands from both of them.

Shiro had been halfway to apologising when Keith had brought his hands to his mouth, and it was almost subconscious, the way he’d licked the come from his palm.

Shiro had lost his mind.

He looks at Keith’s hands now, eyes the bracelet looped around Keith’s right wrist and thinks about dragging Keith closer, scraping his teeth over Keith’s pulse, sucking a bruise onto it, then another, further up—

The song changes.

Keith’s eyes light up as he recognises the tune and Shiro’s suckerpunched again with how stunning he is as he nods his head to the beat.

It's a similar tune to the song Shiro heard when he first met Keith, has the same slow, seductive tempo that makes Shiro think of thunderstorms on the horizon, of whiskey burning his throat and warming his stomach, of Keith, gazing up through long, dark lashes.

 _'Have you no idea that you're in deep?'_ the singer croons, and yeah, Shiro was in over his head from the moment Keith walked into the diner. _'I dreamt about you nearly every night this week.'_

Keith tips his head back as he sways and Shiro reaches for him, closing his eyes at how his hands span across Keith's hips.

Yeah, he thinks, stuck on the way the coloured lights bounce off Keith's face. Deep enough to drown.

 _'Crawling back to you,'_ the song goes, and Shiro wants that, wants to be on all fours over Keith, wants to kiss his pretty mouth until he arches beneath him and those noises spill from him again.

He wants everything he can get.

So selfish.

Keith lets him be selfish, lets Shiro tug him closer, doesn't protest Shiro's questing touch running down his arm.

Shiro catches Keith's wrist, presses his nose to it to do what he'd wanted to do earlier.

Oh, fuck.

Keith hums, querying Shiro's pause, and Shiro inhales again.

"Baby," he mumbles, just to see the way Keith's ears pinken. "God, your hand…"

"What?" Keith asks.

"You smell like come," Shiro says, breathless again, and then Keith flushes even deeper and Shiro is torn between being endeared and turned on.

In the end his dick wins out, because the smell reminds him of the way Keith had sucked his fingers into his mouth and his cheeks had hollowed and he hadn't _cared_ , hadn't been performing at all, had just licked until all of it was gone.

"Oh," Keith says, and then, he goes quiet, assessing. "Does...does it matter?"

Shiro looks up from where he's still burying his nose in Keith's wrist. "What do you think?"

He was wrong. Keith's smile doesn't warm his bones, it _scorches_ them, leaves Shiro empty and aching and wanting.

— S —

The weekend comes at Shiro with the pace of everything else around here: slowly, oh so slowly.

Friday’s evening takes its time to arrive, and by the time Shiro stumbles out of his office, desperately in need of an iced tea or Keith or both, it’s almost sundown.

He goes to the beach first.

The sun is blazing vermilion, a ruby nesting on the horizon. Above it, the clouds glow magenta, fading into lavenders and greys.

It makes Shiro think of Keith.

But, then again, everything makes him think of Keith.

After the bathroom, after they’d made their way off the dancefloor and were back at the table, Keith had stolen Shiro’s glass.

“This isn’t coffee.”

“An astute observation,” Shiro deadpanned.

Keith had grinned, had taken a mouthful of iced tea and then pushed the glass back.

“What’re your plans for the rest of the night?” Shiro had asked, eyes fixed on the loose strands of hair falling from Keith’s bun.

They curled around his throat and Shiro had reached out, brushed them backwards to see the flush slowly spreading up Keith’s neck.

God, he really was beautiful.

Shiro was _smitten_.

“I don’t know,” Keith had said, and the look he gave Shiro could only be described as shy.

They both knew what they wanted the plans to be.

“I want to go home with you,” Shiro had said, because god, did he ever.

He wanted to haul Keith up into his arms, wanted Keith to wrap those mile-long legs around his waist, wanted Keith have to brace his hands against the wall and do his best to hold on while Shiro coaxed those gorgeous sounds from him again.

“I really want to,” he’d said, stalling.

“Then do it. Come home with me.”

Keith’s voice was soft and Shiro almost gave in, almost agreed. In the end, the only thing that stopped him was the idea of Slav making him do overtime.

Shiro liked Keith.

He liked Keith _a lot_.

But nothing was worth still being holed up in the office at the end of the working day and being forced to stay an extra two hours the entire week with just Slav.

“I can’t,” he said, feeling like he was breaking something. “I wish I could, but it’s…Tuesday.”

Spoken out loud like that felt like a dick move, like Shiro couldn’t come up with a proper valid reason. But it was true. Their office was hosting the monthly conference at midday and Shiro was already treading on thin ice by being out so late.

He hoped he’d be able to present coherently.

“Office life,” Keith said.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Keith shrugged. “Some other time.”

Shiro had nodded so quickly he was pretty sure his neck would snap off. “Yeah, of course. Some other time.”

Then he'd remembered not having Keith's number and set about rectifying it.

He’d made it through the conference relatively unscathed. Ulaz had raised a brow when Shiro had messed up some of his sentences, because Shiro is a perfectionist when it comes to speeches and his presentations are usually flawless, but Ulaz deigned not to comment. Sanda had been too engrossed in the report on her tablet to notice.

And then Thursday had slapped him across the face with miles of paperwork to sift through, and now he’s here at Friday, feeling like he hasn’t seen Keith in years.

It’s terrifying, to miss someone he barely knows.

— S —

They go back to the spot they had coffee at, Shiro still giddy over the line of warmth Keith upon his back as they ride. It surges in him like a wave, the way it pushes the corners of his mouth up and wraps around his heart and squeezes.

Shiro wants to _drown._

Keith wanders ahead of him into the diner, and they stare up at the menu together, Shiro digging his hands into his pockets, head still swimming as he tries to pick something that isn’t going to land him in another week of debt in gym.

Keith picks fries and a milkshake, the epitome of health, and Shiro had told Keith that dinner was on him but he still has to race to beat him to tapping his card on the scanner.

“Hey,” Keith says and makes a face at him. 

It’s supposed to be admonishing but it just makes Shiro want to kiss him again. Which, in the grand scheme of Shiro’s feelings for Keith, is not very surprising.

He really needs to rein it in.

Keith sits next to him at the table, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He looks beyond tired, and it makes Shiro want to bundle him up in a blanket and take him home.

“Long day?” he asks sympathetically.

Keith nods, before propping his chin in his hand.

Shiro's gut clenches.

Keith is _devastating_ , and half the time, he doesn’t even seem to be aware of it.

“What about you?” Keith says. “Get up to anything interesting?”

“Eh,” Shiro shrugs. “Work is work. Pays the bills.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Yes and no,” Shiro says, because it _was_ interesting, before he’d walked into Marmora Diner and seen Keith. “It’s what you’ve got to look forward to when you graduate.”

“Can’t wait,” Keith deadpans as he fiddles with the cruet. “So in four months time I guess I’ll have upgraded from a very exhausted engineering student to a very exhausted engineer instead.”

“Now, doesn’t that sound tempting?”

Keith laughs. “Very. So, if you think I look tired now, wait until November.”

“You still want me around then?” Shiro asks lightly, going for teasing when in reality his heart rate has kicked up too fast.

Keith turns his head to look at him properly, and Shiro can’t find it in himself to keep the eye contact, choosing to focus on the salt shaker in Keith’s hands.

Except then that backfires on him, because now he’s thinking of Keith’s hands in his mouth, Keith’s hands around his dick, Keith’s hands fisting tight in Shiro’s hair whilst Shiro fucks into him.

“If you want,” Keith says, just as lightly.

Shiro wants. Shiro wants very much.

“Yeah,” he nods, “I want to,” and it feels like the right time to seal it with a proverbial kiss, except their order arrives and Keith’s attention shifts.

The moment is lost.

— S —

“I like it here,” Keith says, leaning against Shiro.

They’re at the beach again, because Shiro had mentioned it being the culprit that delayed him getting to Marmora Diner before it closed. He’d also talked about gym but Keith had wrinkled his nose and told Shiro seeing his own gym once a day was enough.

“Me too,” Shiro says.

Probably the most cardinal sign that he’s in far too deep is that he’s asking Keith to come home so he can make him coffee and cuddle with him on the couch while they watch a movie. And if it leads to anything else, Shiro definitely won’t complain, but he knows this is a lot more than dragging Keith through his bed.

So much more.

The surf is small today, the moon is huge and golden upon the surf, and Keith is exceptionally pretty sitting in the sand with him. Shiro turns and noses Keith’s hair, before deciding to just go all in and finding Keith’s hand.

His fingers are warm when Shiro links them together.

“I like you, as well,” Keith says, and it’s so _easy_ for him to say that.

Shiro squeezes his hand, heart pounding. “I like you too.”

And, 'like' doesn't _quite_ cover everything, but it'll have to suffice, for now.

"I mean," he tacks on. "I like you a lot."

"Just me?" Keith asks, reminding Shiro of when they had coffee the first time and Shiro had called him beautiful.

"Just you," Shiro confirms, because who else? "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Keith says as he smiles at Shiro, “it's cool,” like they’re simply making small talk, and then puts his head back onto Shiro’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, faint, “Cool,” and he hides his smile in Keith’s hair.

— S —

“Come home with me,” Shiro murmurs.

They’ve been kissing against Shiro’s bike for probably longer than what is appropriate for a public setting, but then again, giving each other handjobs in a public bathroom probably wasn’t appropriate either.

Not that Shiro would _ever_ take that back.

Keith’s mouth tastes like the salty fries he’d laughed around earlier, and his kisses are almost shy, which is still something Shiro didn't think he’d see in Keith, especially so after the other night.

Perhaps it’s due to them not being sequestered away somewhere, even though the beach and boardwalk are empty.

“Okay,” Keith says readily, and Shiro presses his forehead to Keith’s shoulder.

God.

“Just like that?” he breathes.

“Is that—was I supposed to say no?” Keith is frowning now, and _god_ , Shiro likes him far too much already.

Surely it’s too soon.

“No,” he says, “no, that’s fine. I just.” He makes himself look Keith in the eye, now, because that’s what Keith deserves. “You’re great,” he blurts out. “Really great, and I really like spending time with you, but if you just want to leave it here for now, that’s okay too.”

Keith’s hands are so warm where they rest on Shiro’s thighs. “Really?”

It’s Shiro’s turn to frown. “Yeah, I mean. You don’t think it’s fast?”

Keith shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

Shiro almost chokes. “What?”

Keith’s stance turns defensive. “What?”

“Am I…” And then Shiro trails off, horrified, because it’s one thing to jerk off someone for their first time, but in a _bathroom_ too? “Shit, Keith. I’m sorry.”

Keith just looks even more irritated. “Why?”

“Because I...Keith, we had sex in a _bathroom_.”

“And it was good,” Keith says. “So what? I mean, I’ve _done things_ before. Just. Not like this.”

Oh.

_Takashi, you idiot._

Keith blinks. “Wait. Did you—I’m not—did you think—?”

Keith’s laughter is something Shiro will never, ever tire of.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, winding his arms tighter around Keith’s waist and pulling him somehow even closer, partly to wallow, mostly to indulge. “Just shh.”

“Make me,” Keith says and Shiro squeezes his waist at the pulse of _want_.

Because he can see it now, Keith laid out on his bed, Keith flushed and pretty as the sounds spill from him and Shiro gets to chase after them with his hands and mouth.

“If you want me to.” And he raises his head to find Keith’s eyes boring into him. “Do you?”

Keith brushes their noses together, echoing what Shiro told him earlier: “Yeah. I want to.”

— S —

The ride to Shiro’s is short. Matt and Pidge are always telling him to get a hobby that isn’t gym, because his apartment is a clear indicator that he’s got no idea what to do with his money. Keith takes a cursory look and then toes off his shoes at the doorway.

“Nice place,” he says, padding over to the monster of a couch that takes up half the living room area.

“Thanks,” Shiro says, eyes caught on the push of Keith’s fingers through his hair as he sits. “Do you want a drink?”

“Sure.”

Shiro makes them both tea, because it’s too late for coffee, and then he settles on the couch next to Keith.

“Do you want a jumper?” he asks, watching Keith undo the sashes of his uniform.

“Huh?”

“Just,” Shiro says, ears flaming. He feels like a teenager. “Did you want a jumper to change into? Or, shower. You can shower if you like. Get the…work grime off you. If you want. You don’t have to.”

Keith watches him carefully. “Might take you up on that offer.”

Shiro does _not_ panic. “Okay.”

He shows Keith the way and sets out a spare change of clothes for him, before retreating to the living room again to set up the TV. Water echoes on the tiles and Shiro busies himself with choosing something on Netflix so he doesn’t think about Keith naked metres away from him.

 _Stupid_ , he thinks. He’s so stupidly into Keith.

And Shiro sees it play out in his head: sitting with Keith on his ridiculously comfortable couch and pulling a blanket over the two of them and feeling the rise and fall of Keith’s chest against his. He sees them falling asleep there, and only waking when the clock ticks over into the new day, and then he makes Keith breakfast and pushes his thumb to Keith’s cheek just to feel his smile.

The water keeps going.

Shiro is still scrolling through the Action section when Keith comes back to the living room. His hair is damp, and the clothes Shiro picked were small, but the neckline of the shirt is still too large for him, indicated by the way it sits wide on his shoulders.

His collarbones are lovely.

“Better?” Shiro asks.

“Yeah,” Keith says, hovering like he doesn’t quite know what to do.

“Good.”

Keith takes a cursory look at his apartment. Then he sniffs. “So. Bedroom?”

It makes Shiro laugh again, how effortlessly attractive Keith is. “You don’t want to watch something?”

“I want to watch you on top of me, yeah,” Keith says bluntly, leaning casually against the couch arm.

He really does belong on a magazine cover.

Shiro drags a hand down his face. “Fucking hell, baby.”

Keith’s arms are crossed but he ducks his head, smiling. It gives Shiro whiplash, how such a simple gesture has him go from stunned to amused in a split second.

“You still like me calling you that, don’t you?” he teases as he gets to his feet, feeling like his insides are made of jelly and nothing else.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Yeah, _Takashi_.”

They’re both playing the game now.

It’s so, _so_ easy.

Shiro appraises him, aching to close the gap between them. Eventually Keith unfolds his arms and walks over. Shiro hears the soft pad of his feet against the carpet and shivers in response.

“You’re teasing me,” Keith murmurs, stepping into Shiro’s space and touching Shiro’s top button. “Making me wait.” His fingers flick it open, and when he looks up, Shiro knows whatever he’s feeling must be written all over his face, because Keith keeps going, slow and slow and slower, until he’s four buttons down. “Making me do all the work.”

“Had to,” Shiro gasps out when Keith works his hand into the opening of his shirt to feel his skin. “Had to let you know you could still go if you wanted.”

Keith’s eyes flash, and he leans up to say, “I’m not going anywhere.”

— S —

New Daibazaal’s sunrise greets them early the next morning. Keith rouses with a muffled groan, squinting at the lightening sky before shuffling closer to Shiro.

Shiro welcomes him, marvelling at how unselfconscious Keith seems to be when Shiro feels like he’s constantly falling apart, and he drapes the blanket properly around Keith’s shoulders. “Hey. Morning.”

Keith mumbles something sleepily that Shiro doesn’t catch, but the way he slumps against Shiro tells Shiro he definitely isn’t a morning person. Shiro should go to gym—he’s skipped on the past couple of days, now, and even though he went last night, he isn’t quite sure he’s in the clear just yet.

It’s hard to feel guilty though, when Keith is curled into his side.

“Morning,” Keith sighs out, slowly blinking awake.

“Sleep well?” Shiro asks gently as he runs his hand through Keith’s hair, careful not to snag on any tangles.

“Yeah,” Keith says, and then he goes pink. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. You were tired.” Shiro pauses, and then speaks his mind: “It was cute.”

Keith scrunches his nose up, which makes it worse.

It _was_ cute though. They’d stumbled into Shiro’s room in a blur of wandering hands and messy, eager kisses, and Keith had looked _amazing_ crawling over him, growling at Shiro to spread his legs and settling between them.

Except then he’d yawned. And kept yawning.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he’d apologised on the fourth one.

Shiro had chuckled and prodded him onto his side. “It’s okay. It’s been a big day for you. You can go to sleep, if you want. Stay over.”

"I'll stay over." Keith had squinted at him. “But I _don't_ want to sleep.”

“You should,” Shiro repeated. “You’re tired, baby.”

Maybe it was the nickname, but Keith had gone begrudgingly. He fell asleep in minutes though, so he definitely needed the rest.

Shiro eases a tangle out of Keith’s hair and says as much.

“Must have,” Keith says, before burying his head in the pillow. “It’s so _early_.”

Shiro hums in agreement, content to just lie there and play with Keith’s hair. Dawn is a gradient of purples and the morning light catches the violet of Keith’s eyes just so.

He’s beautiful.

Keith relaxes into Shiro’s touch, and countless minutes pass just like that, until Keith twists his head to nuzzle Shiro’s hand.

Shiro sucks in a breath when Keith kisses it.

“Oh,” Keith says, like he’s only just remembering how sensitive Shiro had been in the bathroom. “Right.” He shifts to his side, and when he repeats it this time, his mouth is soft and wet against the dorsum of Shiro’s prosthetic hand.

Sensation sparks outwards from the touch up Shiro’s forearm.

“Keith,” he mumbles.

Keith’s eyes flicker to Shiro’s, and he pushes the sheets away to hold Shiro’s hand in his. “Yeah?” he says, teasing, because he _knows_ what mouthing at Shiro’s palm like that is doing to Shiro. He sits up, blanket slipping off his shoulder. “I didn’t get to do this properly the other night.” He presses his nose to Shiro’s prosthetic and inhales. “Do you like that?”

“Yeah,” Shiro swallows.

“What does it feel like?”

“Good,” Shiro manages. “Really good.”

Keith grins, and sucks Shiro’s thumb into his mouth.

“ _Jesus,_ Keith.”

Keith just keeps going.

The sensory feedback ripples up Shiro’s arm as Keith moves until he’s breathless with it, moaning softly when Keith’s mouth finds his pulse again and he sucks slowly.

“Keith,” Shiro pleads quietly, because it feels like too much and not enough.

Keith nods, like he understands, and he crawls into Shiro’s lap readily, legs splaying either side. Shiro tilts his face up and kisses him carefully, delighting in the little gasp Keith makes, before he grabs Keith around the waist and flips them.

The noise of surprise Keith makes is even more endearing, but Shiro just pushes his knees apart and moves between them, leaning down to take Keith’s mouth once more.

“Off,” Keith mumbles between kisses, smiling, and damn, if that doesn’t make Shiro’s stomach clench. “Off, Shiro.”

“Okay,” Shiro nods, “yeah,” pulling back to let Keith fumble with the hem of his shirt.

Keith tosses it to the side without care and then he just looks at Shiro’s chest, stares at it. “Fucking hell.”

“Shh,” Shiro says, not wanting the attention when Keith is underneath him and looking exactly like the best possible thing to walk into Shiro’s life.

“Make me,” Keith says, just like he had at the bike, so Shiro surges up and does just that.

He curls his hand around Keith’s neck, kisses him as he arches into Shiro’s touch, knees pressing into Shiro’s hips, nails digging into Shiro’s biceps. He presses kisses to Keith’s mouth and face, grazes his teeth along Keith’s cheekbone, noses at his jaw. Sounds spill from Keith like water as they move as one, hips grinding against one another’s.

“Yeah,” Keith pants, hands pawing at Shiro, “Like that,” and Shiro digs his arms under Keith’s shoulders to push better.

“Keith,” Shiro says, because he likes the shape of Keith’s name in his mouth, and the way Keith moves against him at the sound is _everything_. “I wanna…”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, even though Shiro hasn’t said what he wants yet. “Yeah, let’s.”

“Let’s what?” Shiro says as Keith grabs at him.

“Off,” Keith says again in lieu of an explanation, tugging on Shiro’s pants.

Shiro feels Keith’s smile upon his throat and eventually decides that yes, regretfully, he’s going to have to move off him to get their sweatpants off. Keith is laughing and breathless as Shiro kicks his way free, and then Shiro grabs the waistband of Keith’s.

“Off?” he checks.

“How many times are you going to make me say it?” Keith says. “Yes, _off_.”

Shiro tugs them down, taking in the bony knob of Keith’s ankles and the swell of his calves. He leans down to press a kiss to one, nuzzling the hair of Keith’s shin before bumping up against Keith’s knee. Keith’s hand touches Shiro’s forelock gently, and when Shiro looks up, Keith’s eyes burn right through him.

“What did you want to do now?” Shiro says as he mouths lazily at Keith’s thigh.

A sigh. “Whatever you want, Takashi.” And god, Shiro is going to be Pavlovian conditioned to the sound of _that_.

“Okay,” Shiro says, moving further up Keith’s thigh with suckling kisses until he reaches Keith’s cock.

It’s flushed against his belly and Shiro wraps a hand around the base of it as he kisses along to the head of it.

“Takashi,” Keith stutters. “Shiro.”

Shiro likes the sound of that a lot.

He hums thoughtfully, even though he’s nearly mindless with Keith’s cock hard and leaking in his hand, and the taste of precome is faint upon his tongue when he closes his lips around the head of Keith’s cock.

“Shiro,” Keith says again, plaintive. “Is this okay?”

“It’s okay,” Shiro soothes, making his mouth sloppy and easy as he suckles on the head of Keith again, further down this time, the promise of Keith stretching his mouth open enough to make him grind down into the bed to centre himself.

He’s desperate for it.

Keith shudders and sighs above him as Shiro’s mouth eventually moves to envelop the full length of him, and Shiro closes his eyes at how good it feels. He wanted this back at the bar, has wanted to have his head between Keith’s thighs for what feels like forever, so to finally have it is dizzying.

Keith’s hands are in his hair, and they don’t pull or direct like Shiro thought they might; instead they rest there, like Keith needs them to anchor himself. Shiro is grateful for the expanse of Keith’s thigh he can grip onto as he bobs his head, because he feels like he’s lost at sea.

“Oh,” Keith says, hips stuttering like he can’t stop himself.

 _Yes,_ Shiro thinks, meeting the movement. His lips burn where they’re sealed tight around Keith’s dick, his jaw aches from being pried open like this, because it’s been so long, but it’s worth it. It’s worth it for the way Keith sounds above him, worth it for how the planes of Keith’s stomach twitches and his chest heaves with each breath.

“Shiro,” Keith says again, more urgent this time, and Shiro knows Keith wants him to stop because he’s about to come, but Shiro wants it in his mouth. “ _Shiro_ —”

And this time the hands in his hair _pull_.

The pain of it strikes at Shiro hot and fast and pools in his stomach. He’s so turned on, he feels like he might fly apart at the simplest touch.

He doesn’t get a chance to apologise, doesn’t get to say how much he wanted the taste of Keith’s come, because Keith is on his knees then, pushing against Shiro. He kisses him open-mouthed and hungry, hands grasping Shiro’s neck and face as he forces Shiro down this time.

“In me,” he says, pushy and beautiful. “I’m coming with you inside me.”

“Okay,” Shiro says.

Keith’s body runs hot above him, thighs trapping Shiro beneath him.

He gets a hand around Shiro’s dick and brings it to his to thrust against, and the visual of it combines with the memory of the last time they did it.

Shiro groans. “Oh god.”

“In me,” Keith repeats. “Takashi, come on.”

Shiro nods, eyes glued to the way Keith’s dick slides against his. “Yeah,” he rasps, overwhelmed. “Yeah, um. Drawer.”

Keith is up in a flash, back just as quick. Shiro’s a big person but he feels so small in comparison to the firebird on top of him, and when Keith tilts his head up to slip his tongue along Shiro’s mouth, Shiro welcomes him gladly.

“What do you need?” Shiro asks as Keith kisses him, moving over him, fumbling with the tube of lubricant in his hand.

It’d be a lot easier if Keith just sat up and focused on one thing, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry to detach his mouth from Shiro’s, and Shiro is just fine like this anyway.

“Just kiss me,” Keith says out the side of his mouth. “Okay?”

So Shiro does as he’s told.

He tilts his head and kisses Keith deep while Keith’s hand reaches back. Slick noises reach Shiro’s ears, and the angle has got to be killing Keith’s arm, but Keith’s mouth is insistent against his and Shiro gropes Keith’s ass, unable to stop from rutting up against him.

Keith’s teeth clack against his and Shiro laughs, brushing his thumb over Keith’s bottom lip.

“Sorry,” Keith says as his arm keeps moving. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, clearing the hair from Keith’s eyes and pressing his lips to Keith’s forehead. “God, you look amazing.”

Keith’s rhythm falters. “ _Shiro._ ”

He rolls his shoulder, like he’s trying to get comfortable again, and Shiro seizes the opportunity.

“Let me,” he whispers, touching Keith’s hand and nudging down until he can feel the stretch of Keith’s rim around his fingers, and _oh_ — “Fuck, Keith.”

Keith moans, eyes squeezed shut as Shiro’s questing fingers trace around Keith’s hole. “ _Shiro._ ”

He’s taut around his fingers and Shiro _wants_. “Keith, baby—can I?”

“Please,” Keith says, breathless above him, “ _Please_ ,” and the groan that falls from his mouth as Shiro eases a finger in beside his own brands itself into Shiro’s memory. “Oh god.”

Shiro nods, almost incoherent. Keith’s warm and tight around him and Shiro bites into the slope of Keith’s shoulder as Keith rocks back onto their fingers. He’s so hard it hurts.

“Now,” Keith says. “That’ll do—Shiro—now.”

Shiro lets Keith take charge again, lets him grip his face and kiss him, hot and messy. Their stomachs are sticky with precome and lube and Keith’s fingers are shaking when Shiro squeezes more gel onto them. He strokes Shiro, gets him straining in Keith’s hands as he rolls the condom on before teething at Shiro’s bottom lip.

“Still okay?”

Shiro sucks on the corner of Keith’s jaw, feels the heat of Keith’s cheek against his nose. “How many times are you going to ask that?”

“As many times as it takes.”

Shiro snorts, nuzzles Keith’s throat. “Yeah, baby. Of course it’s okay.”

Keith sinks down.

He’s hot. He’s so, _so_ hot, and tight, and wet, clenching rhythmically around Shiro’s dick as he goes. Halfway down, he sinks forward, plants a messy hand on Shiro’s chest, looks at Shiro with his lip pulled between his teeth as he rocks his hip and takes Shiro deeper.

Shiro could look up at him for the rest of his life.

“Keith, baby,” he chokes out when Keith is finally seated, ass settling against Shiro’s thighs. “Oh fuck.”

“Good?” Keith breathes.

Shiro can only nod. “Yeah, yeah, so good.”

He bucks up once, helpless, and Keith falls forward onto both hands now, either side of Shiro’s head.

“Shiro,” he moans, long and drawn out.

“You feel so good,” Shiro repeats, sliding his hands up Keith’s damp thighs until he can grasp his trim waist again.

Keith sweeps his hair from his face, brushes it back and Shiro groans at the feeling of Keith tightening around him as he rocks up onto his thighs and back down again, slowly building a haphazard rhythm.

“Good,” Keith says as he bounces, not nearly as undone as Shiro is.

Shiro wants to change that. He leans up to catch Keith’s shoulder in his mouth, bites gentle at the dip of his collarbone, sucks on the join of his jaw and neck. Hands slide up Keith’s back, grip his shoulders, his ribs. Keith responds just as fiercely, arms lithe around Shiro’s neck and holding him there. He hasn’t stopped once, still moving up and down on Shiro’s dick.

“Fuck,” Shiro says in a near whimper. “Oh god.”

“Keep going,” Keith encourages, knees strong.

Shiro gets his arm around Keith’s waist properly and fucks into him purposefully without warning, and, unprepared, Keith falls back a little from the force. Shiro takes advantage of the slip up, pulls Keith’s legs to wrap around his waist as he brings Keith down to the sheets again.

Keith bites into Shiro’s shoulder when the angle forces them closer together, moans into sweat-damp skin. “Fuck, Shiro.”

And it’s like before, when they were rutting against each other still clothed, except ten times hotter and infinitely better. Shiro brushes Keith’s hair off his forehead, cups Keith’s neck and fucks in.

Keith gasps with it, moans with each push of Shiro into him. His fingers are white where they grip Shiro’s arms and he’s a wreck, mouth slack and open as Shiro thrusts. He arches beneath Shiro so prettily and Shiro holds him there with one arm, trying not to lose his mind at how narrow Keith’s waist feels.

“Fuck,” he hisses, closing his eyes as Keith rolls his hips into him. “Fuck, Keith.”

Keith nods and whimpers, grabbing at Shiro’s shoulders, at his neck. “Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to ask Shiro if it feels good even when Shiro is so _clearly_ losing himself.

“Oh god,” Shiro whines. “Keith, you feel so good.”

Keith’s breath is falling hot and fast upon Shiro’s neck. He’s not saying anything now, but his knees are tight against Shiro’s waist, his fingers digging in wherever they touch.

“Don’t stop,” Keith says eventually, and Shiro just keeps moving, hips pistoning into the tight heat of Keith, unable to stop if he tried. “I’m so close,” Keith whispers and it doesn’t matter that Shiro’s seen Keith come before, he wants to see it again, he wants Keith to fall apart because of _him_.

Shiro groans, gets his arm under Keith’s shoulders and uses it for better leverage to snap his hips forward. Keith cries out at the changed angle, thumps his head on Shiro’s collarbone, hand trapped between them.

“Please,” he says, breathless, and then, “Please, please, please—oh fuck— _fuck_ —please—Shiro—”

And then it gets even _tighter_ and Shiro stumbles, breath punched out of him. Keith swears as he comes, teeth biting into Shiro’s deltoid as he whimpers and Shiro groans, pulling Keith as close as he’ll go, mind melting at the starburst of Keith in his arms.

Come slides between their bellies and Keith puts a hand on Shiro’s thigh to stop his stuttering hips, arm still hooked around Shiro’s neck as he pants against it.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “ _Fuck_ , Takashi.”

“Are you okay?” Shiro says worriedly, nosing his temple, flexing his hands on Keith’s hips.

“Yeah,” Keith sighs. “Really okay, just. A lot.”

“I can—” Shiro says, already shifting to pull out when Keith stops him with an ankle to the back of his leg.

“Don’t. Stay. Give me a minute.”

Shiro shifts on his forearms. “Okay.”

Keith’s mouth finds his again, swollen from their kisses and biting it, and his hands settle against Shiro’s face. Shiro loses himself to it, to the purposeful kisses from Keith’s mouth, to the way Keith’s heel digs into the back of his thigh to get him to move again.

“Like this,” Keith encourages quietly. “I want you to come like this.”

Shiro seals kisses down Keith’s neck like brands. “Whatever you want,” he promises.

“Good,” Keith says.

Shiro uses that on Keith because he loves the way Keith goes pliant with it, but hearing the praise from Keith directed makes him _melt_.

“Like that,” Keith says as he shakes, “Just keep going,” and Shiro can’t do anything other than continue grinding into Keith.

“Keith,” he whispers, and Keith kisses his ear, his jaw, his chin, murmurs little encouragements into his ear, like how good Shiro feels, how much he wants Shiro to come inside him. “Fuck.”

And it has to be too much for Keith, has to be overstimulating him beyond belief but Keith makes him keep going even as he shudders in Shiro’s arms, tells him, “Don’t fucking stop,” and lets Shiro _use_ him.

“I’m going to come,” Shiro practically slurs, drunk on the tight heat of Keith, on the damp palms pressed against his skin, on the way Keith is whimpering into his throat each time Shiro thrusts.

“Oh god,” Keith begs. “Please.”

“Baby,” Shiro says, catching the curve of Keith’s smile haphazardly before burying his face in Keith’s neck again and fucking in hard.

“Takashi,” Keith says, right in his ear. “Come on, come inside me, I want it, I want to feel it, please, please—”

Keith, as always, can have _whatever_ he wants.

— S —

Later on, they drink coffee in the living room as the sun stretches across the sky, Keith’s hair damp from the shower still.

Shiro didn’t come to New Daibazaal for anything other than work. But right now, he has Keith sitting on the couch before him, beautiful and a little lopsided, and doesn’t that make something happy and carefree unfurl within him?

He pads across the floor to him, puts a cup down for Keith and then sits with him. They’d gotten carried away in the shower too, and Shiro dreads to think what his water bill is going to be at the end of the month, but it will be worth it, the way Keith had shouted and shattered apart under his tongue.

The sea is emerald in the summer sun behind them, and Keith is ethereal, limned in light, golden around the edges.

“Takashi Shirogane,” he says slowly, once again giving Shiro’s name a go.

Shiro loves the way he says it.

He hums, kisses the corner of Keith’s mouth. “What are you up to today?”

“Nothing.”

“Have lunch with me?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “So demanding.”

“Say no then,” Shiro says, biting on the shell of Keith’s ear.

God, he really feels like a teenager now, fire prickling under his skin.

Keith nuzzles him. “Just us?”

“Matt and Pidge asked.” Shiro pauses, then adds, because he has a terrible feeling that they’re going to _love_ Keith. “You’d like them.”

“Yeah?” Keith knocks their shoulders together. “Alrighty. Whatever you want.”

Shiro wants lunch with Keith. And dinner. And breakfast. On repeat.

"How about dinner?"

"Or breakfast?" Keith teases, like he read Shiro's mind. "Or coffee?"

Shiro swallows. "All of the above?"

Keith sucks in a breath. God, his eyes; Shiro is never going to get used to them.

"Takashi," he says around a slow smile. "I told you. Whatever you want." 

**Author's Note:**

> Bug me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/sepiacigarettes?s=09)!


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